Repairs
by WillowDryad
Summary: The High King is the bravest man in Narnia, isn't he?


**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me.**

REPAIRS

Peter pulled his hooded cloak more closely around himself and quickened his pace. Only a few feet more and he'd be out. A glance behind him told him he was not being followed. He'd taken a too-circuitous route from his own chambers to get here, including a brief bit of dangling from the edge of a tower roof. He would have known if anyone was trailing him.

He had to get out. He had to get out now.

He could see the small door that led outside the castle wall, little used and always locked and only a few strides away. The key, worn and no longer shiny, was comfortingly heavy in his pocket. When he was nearly at the door, he turned again to the corridor behind him. Still. Empty.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, grasping the key as he reached back towards the massive iron ring set in the heavy oaken door. He felt instead the yielding warmth of flesh. With a gasp, he spun around.

"Edmund."

Edmund shoved Peter's hand off his arm. "And just where do you think you're going?"

"For– for a walk."

It sounded pitifully lame even to Peter's own ears.

Edmund looked him up and down, no doubt taking in the cloak and the hood that was pulled down to conceal his face. "To the healers' wing I hope. You look terrible."

Peter scowled at him, but he knew he was right. The whole week had been awful, but last night had been the worst. Last night–

"I just need a little fresh air."

Edmund smirked. "There's air inside."

Peter huffed out a faint laugh and then looked down. "You'll . . . take care of things this morning, won't you?"

Edmund frowned slightly and then there was sudden understanding in his eyes. "That bad?"

Peter opened his mouth to insist there was nothing wrong, but his lips trembled and he felt afresh the helpless terror that had haunted him these past few days. There was a flush of shame in his suddenly hot face, and his words came out in little more than a whisper.

"I'm such a coward, Ed."

For a long moment there was only perfect silence, then Edmund shook his head.

"Idiot."

Looking put out and disgusted in a way Peter found immensely reassuring, Edmund took hold of his arm and hauled him out of the dim corridor and over to the marble bench that sat under an enormous mullioned window flooded with early sunshine.

He shoved Peter down and settled next to him. "What's the matter? And don't tell me nothing again."

Peter rubbed his eyes, mostly to keep his brother from looking too searchingly into them. "I can't do it. I can't– I just can't, Ed. Couldn't you see to everything for me?"

"You're joking, right? All we're doing is meeting with–" Edmund blinked. "I hadn't thought about it. You know it's just Bramblebuffin. We've known his family for years now. As long as we've been in Narnia. His cousin Rumblebuffin–"

Peter groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "I know! I know! I've told myself that ever since this meeting was arranged, but it doesn't seem to make any difference." He looked up again, foolish and weak and no less terrified than before. "I thought I could handle it. I really did. I was wrong."

Edmund's expression softened. "What did you tell me once? Irrational fears are irrational?"

Peter nodded reluctantly.

"After all you went through to get Linnet back, losing Sher, almost dying yourself, the awful nightmares you had." Edmund shook his head. "It's perfectly understandable. And it certainly doesn't mean you're a coward."

Peter exhaled heavily and smiled. "So you'll see to it for me then."

"Peter–"

"King Peter! King Peter!"

A little Swallow darted into the corridor, his two nestmates fluttering behind him.

"Hurry!" they said, a flurry of feathers and peeping voices. "Hurry! Hurry!"

Peter glanced at Edmund and stood up. "What is it, Chip?"

The first Swallow landed on Edmund's head. "The Giant stepped on the Coyote's den, and the Coyote says you have to come do something about it!"

The other two Birds circled around Peter's head and then landed on his shoulder.

"You have to come!" they peeped. "You're the High King! You're the High King!"

"Purl," Peter began. "Tweedle." He looked pleadingly at Edmund. "Ed–"

Edmund stood, too, and took his arm. "You're the High King."

"I can't," Peter breathed, feeling choking sickness rise in his throat. "I can't. I can't. I can't."

Edmund's grip tightened. "It's all right. I'll be right beside you."

"Ed–"

"You can't let this get to you."

"Ed, please."

Edmund's face was stern. "You needn't get close to him. Just go out there and be the High King. You'll see there's no harm in him."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drive away the memory of dull, piggish little eyes, thick soiled fingers, flat, broad noses and thin-lipped mouths filled with pointed teeth. He shoved back the thought of his flower-like Linnet their helpless captive, spirit and body crushed in huge, careless hands, and he pushed down the burning pain of his own broken body and tormented dreams, though no matter how he tried, he could never block out the memory of the Giants' laughter, deep and thick and foolish, cruel and evil. But Bramblebuffin wasn't one of these. He didn't come from Harfang or Ettinsmoor. He was a Buffin. Perfectly respectable. Perfectly safe. Perfectly . . . terrifying.

Edmund tugged his arm, and Peter opened his eyes. The little Birds were watching him, their own eyes bright, full of the knowledge that the High King could set anything right. And Edmund– Well, Edmund wasn't going to let him turn away.

Even before he saw them, Peter could hear the commotion at the Coyotes' den. A variety of Birds and Animals had gathered to see what had happened and opine on what ought to be done, Foxes and Badgers and Squirrels. A pair of Magpies were swooping around the clearing, cawing and expressing their disapproval of "utter carelessness." A mother Rabbit stood with her many children well away from the damage, telling her eldest that he certainly may not go and have just one little look. Mrs. Coyote was standing just in front of the ruined den, her three little ones yipping and snarling from a safe place behind her. The object of their scorn, Bramblebuffin himself, sat on the ground a few yards away, looking rather like a huge boulder with his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around them and a look of profound regret on his round, freckled face.

"Your Majesty!" he cried, seeing Peter, and he swept his cap off his head and began to scramble to his feet.

There was nothing Peter wanted more than to bolt back into the forest away from him, but thanks to the steadying grip on his arm, he managed no more than just a little bit of a flinch. Staying as far back as Edmund would let him, he merely held up one hand and kept his expression as serene and kingly as he could manage.

"No, good Bramblebuffin, stay where you are. Now, what has happened here?"

"Your Majesty," said Mr. Coyote, and as he always did, Peter wondered what it was about the Coyotes in Narnia that made them sound as if their first language was Spanish.

"That clumsy idiot nearly killed us all!" Mrs. Coyote snapped, making her little ones growl more, and one of them peered around her, doing his best to look fierce.

"Let me bite him, Mama. He's not so big."

"Keep them quiet, Margarita," the Coyote said. "The High King will see to it." He turned to Peter. "Forgive us, Your Majesty, but you can see what has happened to our home. It will take weeks for me to dig it out again."

Bramblebuffin was looking on anxiously and worrying his cap, a rather natty yellow one, in his hands. "Please, Your Majesty, it was pure accident it was. I was just coming to have our little talk, sir, about what we Buffins could do to keep them other lot from coming down from Ettinsmoor and troubling Your Majesty, and thinking on all that, I didn't look where I was walking. We Buffins, we're not all that clever, never have been, but none of us was ever after doing any deliberate harm. And the poor Pups, sir, how could anyone even think of upsettin' anything so little and helpless? Now, I ask Your Majesty."

"We're not little!" one of the Pups insisted, fur bristling. "And besides too, you broke our ball."

The object in question, no doubt one of the little stuffed balls Susan and Lucy liked to give to all the newborns, lay torn and leaking cotton near the Pups. The Giant looked so remorseful and unhappy, Peter very nearly felt sorry for him.

"I'm sure we can get you another," Peter said, clearing his throat a bit. "And we're sure you didn't mean to cause any trouble, good Bramblebuffin. It was a mistake anyone might have made, isn't it, Ed?"

"Oh, to be sure," Edmund said, relaxing his hold on Peter's arm a tiny bit.

Bramblebuffin beamed at them, and it wasn't at all the same as when those other Giants had grinned and jeered and gibbered. "I am ever so sorry, Your Majesties, and I'd be pleased to put it right as best I'm able."

The Coyote curled his lip, his accent more pronounced than ever. "We don't need no help from the likes of him."

The Giant ducked his head in shame, and Peter gave the Coyote a reproving glare.

"You should think of your little ones. As you say, it will take you some while to put things right yourself. And where will your Pups sleep all that time? Now, with Bramblebuffin's help, and mine and King Edmund's, and perhaps some of the Moles and a Badger or two–"

"Badgers?" the Coyote spat. "Badgers! We don't need no stinking Badgers!"

"And a Badger or two," Peter repeated firmly, "we'll have it put right before nightfall. What do you all say?"

"Yes, Your Majesty!" several of the Animals cried. "We can! We can!"

"And the Badgers?" Peter said with a nod towards the three looking on.

The Coyote bowed his head. "It would be . . . very good of them."

The Badgers gathered with the others who were to help, though one of them looked down his nose at the Coyote and said primly, "We do _not_ stink."

"Now," Peter said, "the first thing we ought to do is clear out all the dirt and rubble and then we can tell what's still in good shape and what needs to be rebuilt."

"I can see to that, so please you, High King," Bramblebuffin said, standing up and setting his yellow cap firmly on his head. "Won't be but a jiffy."

Peter stepped back, just to let the Giant get to work, and Edmund let go of his arm altogether.

"I'll let you see to this, Pete. I've got work to do."

Peter nodded absently as Edmund disappeared into the trees, his mind already on how best to divide the labor among the helpers he had and who would be best suited to each task. Bramblebuffin would be just the man for the heavy work, and Peter had never seen anyone set to it with such good will. Maybe he should have met with the Buffins well before now.

By suppertime, the Coyotes' den was snug and secure again and, after their exciting day, the Pups were soundly asleep. It wasn't until Peter reached Cair Paravel, tired and dirty and content, that he remembered to thank his brother for what he had done.

And that night his sleep was deep and dreamless.

 **Author's Note: This story takes place after "Wind's Harvest." I think our dear High King can be forgiven for having a touch of PTSD after that. Do let me know what you think.**


End file.
